


Film Noir

by siriusblue



Series: In A Hundred Lifetimes [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Academy Awards, Alternate Universe - 1930s, Based on a Tumblr Post, Bisexual Greg Lestrade, Demisexuality, First Kiss, First Time, Golden Age Hollywood, Greg Lestrade & John Watson Friendship, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Snark, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2019-11-16 02:20:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18085562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriusblue/pseuds/siriusblue
Summary: 1930's Hollywood AU. Stuntman- -turned actor Greg Lestrade is poised on the edge of great things. His good looks and exquisite physique have led to starring roles in many a B-picture and have ensured excellent returns for both his studio and John Watson, his agent. With the impending release of his new romantic comedy Love Among The Ashes Greg looks set to join the A-list.When the film tanks, Greg feels nothing but despair. He knows only too well what it means to go hungry but John Watson isn't giving up on him. He thinks Greg would be perfect for the lead role in a new series of detective movies that will be produced and directed by one of the steadiest pairs of hands in Hollywood, Mike Stamford.but realises they'll need help.What they need is Mycroft Holmes, Hollywood's best kept secret. No one outside the biz has heard of him. He is ruthless, pedantic and seriously particular about who he works with. John predicts fireworks when the uptight Brit meets the force of nature that is his best client.He might also be Greg Lestrade's last hope...





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bookjunkiecat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/gifts).



> This grew from a headcanon posted by bookjunkiecat on Tumblr and she was gracious enough to let me run with it. She also deserves all the love in the world for beta-ing it to make sure none of my Brit-isms sneak through.

Greg Lestrade stepped out onto the deck of his house deep in the Hollywood hills and breathed in the warm night air.

 

Below him the lights shone brightly in the city where dreams were made and Greg felt incredibly lucky to be a part of it. Sometimes he pinched himself just to check that this wasn't a particularly vivid fever dream.

 

With his latest film, the romantic comedy  _ Love Amongst The Ashes  _ in the can and no immediate start date for a new project, Greg felt that he deserved a little distraction and a little company. 

 

He thought about calling John, his agent, before he remembered that Mr Watson was at some industry party that night. Shake and fake, John called it, his British sense of humour undimmed after all those years tending to the neurotic, the addicted and the downright offensive which made up the cream of Hollywood royalty in this glorious year of 1934.

 

“Guess I'll just have to go alone,” said Greg out loud. With where he was planning on heading, he didn't think he'd be alone for long.

 

Greg kept the top down on his car as he drove slowly along the Strip. One thing he had quickly learned was that it was important to see and be seen and he acknowledged the recognition of others with a smile and a wave.

 

At the better end of the Strip, on a side street,Greg pulled up outside a pillarbox-red door. The wrought-iron sign above it read  _ The Paradise Club _ and outside stood a tall burly black man who Greg greeted amiably as he got out of the car.

 

“Hey, Dennis. How are you?”

 

“Good, Mr Lestrade,” replied Dennis, his voice a reassuring rumble. “Want me to park that?”

 

“Sure,” said Greg with a smile, handing over his keys with a generous tip. “Is Red on tonight?”

 

“You bet. Enjoy, sir.” Dennis gestured expansively to the nightclub door.

 

Grinning broadly, Greg entered, handing over his jacket and fedora to the hat-check girl who giggled and blushed as she handed him his ticket. Dora. Mona. Something-a. Pretty enough in her own way but this was Hollywood and what was needed was star quality.

 

“Thank you, um…”

 

“Lisa.” she replied with a Brooklyn accent so thick you could spread it on toast.

 

“Lisa. Right. Silly me.”

 

“No problem, Mr L. You have a good night now.”

 

“Fingers crossed,” said Greg with a smile.

 

He left the cloakroom and pushed his way through the beaded curtains that hung over the entrance to the main room. Inside the lights were dim and the air was thick with the acrid smell of cigarette smoke and spilled beer.

 

No one gave Greg a second glance for the majority of the patrons attention was on the stage.

 

Spotlit with blue and green filters, black off-the-shoulder sequinned dress that she filled most voluptuously and towering on six-inch stiletto heels, Red Melville had her audience eating out of her hand as she sang  _ Ain't Misbehavin’  _ It was a beautiful torch song and Greg noticed more than one customer with a tear in their eye.

 

You had to hand it to Red; she knew exactly how to entice customers in and keep them there before sending them home as drunk as they wanted to be and happier than they ever intended. 

 

A lot of the clubs in Hollywood were little better than a staging post for hookers or pushers but Red's establishment had no truck with selling sex or drugs. She sold entertainment and she did it brilliantly.

 

With a last soulful note, Red's song finished to cheers and whistles from the crowd and as she sauntered offstage, Greg found a seat at the bar and ordered himself a scotch.

 

“And one for the lady,” he added.

 

“What lady?” asked the bartender, before his expression cleared and the owner of the Paradise Club sat on the stool next to Greg. Dressing in a demure skirt and sweater did nothing to reduce her allure. Pouting, satiny red lips and a waterfall of auburn hair which had given her the nickname added up to a very pretty package but not for Greg. Never for him.

 

She placed a cigarette in an ivory holder and wiggled it in Greg's direction.

 

“Hello, sailor. Got a light?”

 

Greg obliged with his battered Zippo and lit one for himself as she exhaled a stream of smoke towards the ceiling.

 

“How's things, Red?”

 

She smiled at him, her china blue eyes twinkling as she took a hefty gulp of her scotch.

 

“Really great, partner. Going to turn a big profit this year now that we're getting proper material behind the bar instead of bootleg booze. What about you, Greg? Finished your movie?”

 

“Yup. It's due for release in a month. Might take myself a bit of a holiday.”

 

Red looked intrigued. “Where?”

 

“Not sure. I've lived here for years but never really got a chance to see the country. Maybe a road trip.”

 

“I dunno, hun. There's a lot of desperate folks out there on the roads.” she cautioned. “We're lucky. We have a place to live and bread on the table. Not everyone is so fortunate.”

 

“I know,” he agreed, frowning. “This Depression's got the country by the balls. The studio hires who it can but Magnusson isn't the most altruistic of people.”

 

She laughed, a deep-throated cackle that turned more than one head.

 

“Listen to you using all those fancy words!” she teased.”All that time you spent in the library trying to get into that sweet thing's pants must've paid off. What was his name again?”

 

“Shhhh!” Greg muttered, looking around him for eavesdroppers.

 

“It's okay, Greg. You're among friends here. Besides everyone knows you really don't care if they're Arthur or Martha as long as they look good.”

 

“You make me sound very superficial,” said Greg, pouting.

 

“This is Hollywood, darlin’.  _ Everything  _ is superficial. That's why you fit right in.”

 

“Maybe.” Greg gestured to the bartender for a refill which was brought with alacrity.

 

“Definitely. Now I'm heading home. Why don't you find yourself someone pretty to celebrate you becoming the Next Big Thing? And if you come in next week, I'll go over the accounts with you.”

 

“I will,” said Greg. He enjoyed being Red's silent partner in the club and, as far as he was concerned, it was no one's concern but the IRS.

 

She kissed him gently on the lips, earning him the enmity of fifty percent of the customers, and sashayed out of the door. 

 

Greg drained his glass and stood up, his eyes scanning the room for a likely candidate for a spot of British wooing.

 

He was on the verge of real stardom and his other interests were maturing nicely. Red had been absolutely right. This was a time to celebrate.

 

*

 

_ Two Months Later _

 

“You're kidding me!”

 

John Watson merely shook his head and handed over the papers which proved what he had just said was actually true. They were in his office on Sunset where John had asked his client to come and see him. Expecting praise, Greg was in for a horrible shock.

 

“I'm sorry, Greg. It's a disaster. The critics absolutely hated it.”

 

Greg shook his head as he read the savage reviews.

 

“Wooden...more chemistry in a salt mine...Gregory Lestrade may look the perfect romantic lead but looks aren't everything...should have stayed a stuntman… never should have thought he could play in the major leagues ”

 

Greg crumpled up the papers and stared at John in despair.

 

“What do the box office receipts say?”

 

“They're staying away in droves, mate. The studio is set to lose a fortune.”

 

“Shit. What's  Magnussen's opinion?”

 

“I won't sugar coat it, Greg. He's talking about releasing you from your contract.”

 

Greg felt sick. Those words had just sounded the death knell of his career.

 

“What am I going to do?” Greg asked despairingly.

 

John ran his hands through his fair hair.

 

“I'm having dinner with Mike Stamford this week. I'll ask his advice, see if he can come up with anything. Until then, sit tight.”

 

“Like I have a choice,” mumbled Greg.

 

*

Red tried to be comforting but her suggestion that he come and tend bar was met with stony silence. Then Greg spoke.

 

“I grew up in the East End of London. I was all set to be a docker like my dad but the war changed all that. I can't go back to being nobody again, Red.”

 

“So what will you do?” she asked.

 

“No idea but if anyone can save me from this mess, it's John Watson.”

 

“Your agent?”

 

“Yes. Between him and Mike I might have a chance.”

 

“And if they don't?”

 

“Then I'm finished,” he said firmly.

  
  


TBC


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to thank the divine @vulpesmillifera for coming up with such a great name for the lead character in the novel. Thank you, lovely.

John Watson straightened his tie and pushed open the heavy doors that guarded the entrance to Gino's.

 

The man he was coming to see wouldn't give a damn if John wore a tie or not but that wasn't the point. Unwritten Rule #1: Always Wear A Tie. Especially If Conducting Business.

 

Gino's wasn't swanky. It offered sensational food at modest prices and, as a result, was usually jammed every night. John loved it.

 

The maitre d. swooped down on him as he entered the warm garlic-smelling fug, smiling broadly as he recognised him.

 

“Mr Watson! Always a pleasure, sir. Mr Stamford is waiting for you. Right this way.”

 

John followed the man through a labyrinth of tables filled with chattering people to a discreet table at the back of the restaurant.

 

Mike Stamford was sitting there, his appetizers abandoned, with his nose in a paperback. At the maitre d's discreet cough Mike threw the paperback onto the table and stood up to shake John's hand vigorously.

 

“John! Right on time. Mario, a bottle of Chianti and a couple of menus.” ordered Mike.

 

“Coming right up, sir.”

 

John sat at the table and tried to massage some life back into his crushed fingers as Mike beamed at him.

 

Mike Stamford was one of the best directors and producers in Hollywood. Nominated every year since the Academy Awards had started, his films always translated to critical acclaim and box-office success. He was also one of John's best friends;a tireless worker, happily married for an indeterminate number of years to Alice and a proud father of four boys. Larger than life in his physical presence and personality, John adored him like the brother he never had.

 

“Good to see you Mike,” said John with a smile. “How's the family?”

 

“Blooming,” replied Mike. “Which reminds me. Alice wants you at our place on Saturday for a barbecue.”

 

John felt himself drooling. Alice was a superb cook and her marinade was the stuff that dreams are made of.

 

“I'll be there,” John promised. “Catch me staying away.”

 

“Great. She thinks you need looking after so expect a few of her unattached friends to be there too.”

 

Mike smiled at John's resigned sigh.

 

“You know Al “ he went on. “She just wants everyone to be as happy as we are. Plus it's been over two years since you and Mary split.”

 

“Mike, I adore you and Alice but you need to stop trying to matchmake for me. I'll find someone when the time's right.”

 

“Yeah, you're right. Can't blame a guy for trying.”

 

A waiter appeared with the menus and an uncorked bottle. He proceeded to fill their glasses and Mike took a long sip, sighing with pleasure.

 

“Goddam Prohibition. Nearly took my balls off. So what's new with you, Johnny boy? How's work since you've got nothing filthy to report.”

 

John snorted into his Chianti.

 

“Keeping busy, you know how it is.”

 

“Uh huh. Too bad about Greg's last movie though.”

 

John scowled and drank some more wine.

 

“It should have been perfect for him. He's absolutely the right choice for a romantic lead but I don't think I've met anyone who didn't hate it.” John confessed.

 

“Not that you asked for my opinion but the direction was terrible and whoever cast the female lead needs an eye exam. They should have seen at the screen test that there was absolutely no chemistry between her and Greg.”

 

“I wish you'd been there,” said John. “It might not have been such a glorious cock-up.”

 

“Wasn't asked. But you're right.”

 

“I need to find the right vehicle for him. Greg has got real talent, Mike. He can't play the plucky sidekick or whatever for the rest of his career.”

 

“I happen to agree,” said Mike.

 

Just then, the waiter appeared to take their order. Once that was done, Mike appeared to change the topic of conversation entirely.

 

“Have you heard of Montgomery Winston?” Mike asked.

 

“No. Should I have?”

 

“Maybe not. He's a writer. Died about five years ago and a little birdy told me that CAM Studios has acquired the rights to all his books.”

 

“What kind of books?” John asked.

 

“Detective books. Proper gritty stuff. His anti-hero is a private detective who spends most of his time in, and I quote, ‘'the dark underbelly of the city’ when he's not screwing dames or drinking himself stupid. Magnussen would like to make a movie of the first one,  _ Down Among The Dead Men.  _ Get yourself a copy and read it then tell me if you think Greg would be perfect as Callahan.”

 

John felt a familiar tingle of excitement at the possibility.

 

“I'll do it,” he said.

 

Mike spotted the waiter heading their way with their meals.

 

“If you can, bring Greg with you on Saturday and we'll talk tactics.” 

 

“You're on.”

 

The bookstore just off Sunset was still open and John was delighted to acquire a paperback copy of the book for the princely sum of ten cents. The cover showed the outline of a man in a fedora and trenchcoat under a streetlight leaning over what was clearly a corpse.

 

Back in his apartment, John poured himself a whisky and started to read.

 

*

 

_ Ring. Ring. Ri… _

 

“What?”

 

“Bloody charming, Greg. It's after eleven in the morning.”

 

Greg yawned into the telephone receiver.

 

“Sorry, John. Bit of a late one last night.”

 

“Aren't they all? I need you to keep Saturday free and come with me to Mike Stamford's place.”

 

“What for?”

 

“Barbecue. And we may have a proposition for you.”

 

Try as he might, John couldn't keep the excitement out of his voice and Greg was intrigued.

 

“Okay, fine.”

 

“I'll pick you up around four. See you.”

 

Greg hung up the phone and lay back against the pillows. John was definitely up to something and if he'd learned anything since he came to Tinseltown, it was to trust John Watson's instincts.

 

*

 

John and Greg pulled up outside Mike's house high in the Hollywood Hills. Judging by the number of cars already there, they would be almost the last to arrive.

 

“Nice place,” said Greg admiringly. 

 

“Wait till you see inside,” said John with a grin. 

 

They followed the noise of a lot of people round to the back of the substantial building where Mike was holding court behind an enormous grill, deftly flipping hamburgers and huge frankfurters while holding three different conversations at once. His eyes lit up when he saw John and Greg.

 

“About time!” Mike scolded. “Beers are in the icebox then come grab some chow.”

 

John and Greg helped themselves to beer before John was accosted by the lady of the house. To prevent himself from being dragged off to meet her friends, John had the presence of mind to introduce her to Greg.

 

“Alice, I'd like you to meet Greg Lestrade. Greg, this is Alice, Mike's wife.”

 

Greg took Alice's hand and swept it to his lips, releasing it after a featherlight kiss which made Alice, mother of four and mother hen to hundreds, blush like a schoolgirl.

 

“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mrs Stamford.” Greg said with a dazzling smile.

 

“Oh, such a charmer. You married, Mr Lestrade?”

 

“Greg, please. And no, I'm not.”

 

“Oh, honey, have you come to the right party,” said Alice gleefully, taking his arm and leading him into the throng. John smirked as he heard her say “Now this is Tily. She's new in town…”

 

John sipped on his beer and watched everyone around him. It was an eclectic group, actors, artists and musicians mostly. Fine balance of men and women. He helped himself to a burger, almost moaning aloud at the perfection of it, and settled back to enjoy himself.

 

*

Greg was in hell. He'd lost count of the available women he'd been introduced to, doing his best to keep up the charming facade as they fluttered around him like bejewelled butterflies. There were a few that definitely had his attention, not to mention a few of the men, but Greg was acutely aware that he was possibly there to save his career so remained on his best behaviour.

 

His relief when Mike and John rescued him was almost palpable.

 

“Really good to see you again, Mike,” said Greg as they shook hands. Mike had directed him in a couple of B-movies in the past and Greg both liked and respected him.

 

“Has John said anything to you?” Mike asked.

 

“Not really, just that you might have a proposition for me.”

 

“Yeah. CAM has optioned Montgomery Wilson's books. Heard of him?”

 

Greg's eyes were out on stalks.

 

“Are you kidding? I love his books.”

 

The two other men looked surprised.

 

“What? I read. How do you think I educated myself?” Greg shook his head.

 

“Anyway,” Mike continued. “I want you to do a screen test.”

 

“Which part?”

 

“Callahan.”

 

Greg clapped his hands to his mouth to stifle his shriek of joy.

 

“I'll do it! When do you want me to start?”

 

“Hold your horses, fella. We need a script first. And that's a big problem.”

 

“Mike's right,” said John. “The books...didn't you find them a bit, I dunno, purple?”

 

“Oh yeah,” said Greg, nodding his agreement. “Old Montgomery never used one word when a dozen would do. So? There must be a hundred scriptwriters in Hollywood. Hire someone.”

 

“You're right. There is. Only thing is, Magnussen wants this to be a success. If it is, there could be a decade of work in it for both of us and enough commission for Johnny here to make him rich but you're not a safe bet after your last turkey, Greg. Magnussen is gonna be a nervous Nellie. He has, however, given us the green light to hire Mycroft Holmes.”

 

John's gasp puzzled Greg slightly.

 

“Who? I've never heard of him.”

 

‘’'And that's the way he likes it. He's a huge industry secret, Greg. Quick, name me some of the top films in the past few years.”

 

Greg rhymed off a dozen films that had been huge at the box office.

 

“Mycroft Holmes wrote the scripts for ninety per cent of those.” Mike informed him.

 

“No way!” Greg exclaimed. “That's incredible. Will he do it?”

 

Mike shrugged.

 

“He's very picky about the projects he chooses. If there's one thing off, he walks. He's rude and insulting and one if the most demanding men I've ever met. We put up with it because he's simply the best there is. Keep your fingers crossed, Greg. This could be the chance to redeem yourself you've been looking for.”

 

*

 

_ London.  _

 

Mycroft Holmes finished reading The Times and folded it carefully, placing it on the highly-polished table beside him.

 

A member of the club staff was approaching him with a tray of tea. Mycroft nodded his thanks and reached for the steaming silver teapot.

 

It was then that he saw the telegram. With a sigh, he put down the teapot and opened the buff envelope.

 

_ New project requires your input. Usual fees and privileges if interested. Mike Stamford CAM Studios. _

 

Mycroft knew of the man's work, of course, and admired it.

 

He checked his pocket watch and calculated that it was breakfast time in Hollywood.

 

Mycroft got out of the comfortable chair and went in search of a telephone.

 

TBC


	3. Chapter Three

John Watson was barred from entering the Paradise Club by the man mountain that was Dennis.

 

“The joint is jumping, Mr Watson,” he warned him. “Can't let anyone else in.”

 

“I just need to see Greg for five minutes,” said John with a pleading smile. “It's good news, honest.”

 

Dennis's broad face broke into a smile.

 

“He sure needs it. Been moping roun’ here for days. In you go. Try and not get squished.” Dennis added cryptically.

 

Once inside, the volume almost knocked John off his feet. The club was packed with people all cutting a rug to the smoking hot jazz combo performing on stage. The air was blue with smoke and the walls themselves were sweating.

 

John despaired of ever finding Greg in such a throng and it took some serious elbow work to get even close to the bar. As he was trying to attract the server's attention, he caught sight of his quarry; wedged up in the corner with a brooding look on his face, his attention on the level of whisky in his glass instead of the band on stage.

 

Through some wild semaphore, John managed to catch Greg's eye and was pleased to see a faint smile from his client.

 

Greg got up and made his way over to John, took him by the arm and led him through a door marked ‘'Staff Only”. When that door was closed behind them, the noise level dropped considerably and they could speak without yelling.

 

“Come into the office,” said Greg with a smile. “Can't hear yourself think out here.”

 

John followed him to the back of the club and waited while Greg unlocked the office door and ushered him inside.

 

John was a frequent patron but had never seen this part of the club before. The office was decked out in grey and red with soft furnishings to match. There was a desk with a shaded lamp on it and an old-fashioned phone. Greg gestured to one of the high wingback chairs and, as John sank into its comfort, Greg poured him a whisky from the decanter on the side table.

 

“Very nice,” said John approvingly as Greg sat opposite him with his own drink.

 

“This is all down to Red. She's the one with all the ideas. She's really got an eye for colour and design and she's transformed this place completely.”

 

“She's not here tonight?”

 

“She's having a couple of days off to relax so I said I'd mind the store for her. So what's up, John?”

 

John leant forward, drawing out the suspense just a tiny bit.

 

“Mycroft Holmes is coming to Hollywood.”

 

“He's agreed?” Greg gasped.

 

“Yup. According to Magnussen, Mr Holmes is really keen to adapt the Callahan book. Apparently he's a bit of a fan.”

 

“Oh, it's so much better when the writers appreciate their source material,” said Greg, smiling.

 

“Uh-huh. There's one more thing. Mr Holmes wants to meet you, to see if you're suitable to play Callahan.”

 

“Does he? Seems a bit unusual. A scriptwriter interfering in casting decisions.”

 

“He's Mycroft Holmes, mate. He gets what he wants because he's absolutely brilliant at what he does but, fair warning, I've heard he's not the easiest man in the world to impress. If he thinks you're right for the role, you're in. If he doesn't like you, there's no way in hell he will work with you.”

 

“Fair enough,” Greg replied. “Man's got his own reputation to think about. I can respect that.”

 

“Okay. I'll let you know as soon as he gets here and wants to meet. There's a bit part in the new Errol Flynn movie in the meantime. If you're interested.”

 

Greg smiled. “Of course I am. Errol and I are what you might call unfinished business.”

 

John looked at Greg sternly.

 

“Can you, just for once, keep it in your pants? I mean, everyone knows what you're like but Mr Holmes might not approve if he gets wind of it. You don't want to be pissing the man off before you've even met.”

 

“Okay, okay,” laughed Greg, holding his hands up in surrender. “I'll behave, I promise. What's the film?”

 

“It's a pirate movie. You'll be auditioning for the part of the first mate.”

 

Greg sighed but nodded his acquiescence.

 

“Yeah, I need something to do. Get back in the game.”

 

He looked seriously at John.

 

“If I've blown my big chance, then so be it. If it doesn't work out with this Holmes bloke then I won't blame anyone but myself. Just keep me working, John. That's all I ask.”

 

“I'll do my best, Greg. Be at Paramount tomorrow. Eight sharp.”

 

“I'll be there. Now, do you want to stay and listen to the band?”

 

John shook his head.

 

“For the sake of my hearing, I'll pass. Just thought I'd bring you up to speed.”

 

“Appreciate it. Have another drink before you go?” Greg asked, brandishing the decanter.

 

“Go on then.” John allowed himself to be persuaded.

 

*

 

Greg walked the audition the following day and was delighted to hear he'd have at least three week's work playing opposite the dashing pirate Errol Flynn.

 

On the way off the lot, he bumped into a familiar face who was absolutely delighted to see him.

 

Irene Adler grabbed him and kissed Greg hard on both cheeks.

 

“You bad boy,” she scolded. “Where have you been hiding?”

 

Greg grinned as she wagged a perfectly-manicured finger at him.

 

“I've just got a part in the new Flynn movie,” Greg admitted.

 

“Excellent,” she replied. “I'm playing Errol's love interest so we'll be seeing a lot of each other.”

 

“That's brilliant,” smiled Greg.

 

He and Irene had come of age in Hollywood together. Where he had fallen off buildings and been set on fire for a living, she had suffered through a number of film roles as a victim. Her breakthrough had come when she played a murderess with such conviction even the most hardened of film critics had had chills.

 

They hugged again after promising to do lunch soon and went their separate ways, she to a scene reshoot and he to the nearest telephone booth to ring John.

 

“I got the part!” Greg announced proudly when he finally got through.

 

“Brilliant, Greg. I'm thrilled.” John always sounded so sincere. “I'm glad you called. Mycroft Holmes is here and he wants to meet.”

 

Greg felt unaccountably nervous.

 

“When?” he asked.

 

“Tomorrow night. Be in the Bel Air reception at eight. I'll meet you there.”

 

“Okay,”

 

“And Greg,” John concluded before hanging up “If you value your career, don't be late.”

 

*

 

At 7.50 precisely Greg was pacing up and down the lobby of Hollywood's swankiest hotel, checking his watch and muttering under his breath. He really hoped he wouldn't be required to take the jacket of his linen suit off because he had already sweated through one shirt before he got there and was convinced the one he was currently wearing would suffer the same unhappy fate.

 

He pounced on John the minute the agent walked through the door.

 

“Where have you been?” he hissed.

 

“Relax. I'm here now. Let's go and meet Mr Holmes.”

 

The two men strode over to the elevator and John asked the attendant to take them to the penthouse. Greg started to feel ill.

 

At precisely eight o'clock John knocked on the door of the penthouse suite which was opened by a tall man wearing a dinner jacket.

 

“Gentlemen. If you would follow me,” he said. “Mr Holmes is expecting you.”

 

“Who's the stiff?” Greg muttered.

 

“Penthouse comes with its own butler. Now, brace yourself.”

 

The butler led them into an opulently furnished room. There were flowers everywhere, even on the grand piano but Greg noticed nothing of that for sitting in an armchair was the most exquisite man Greg had ever seen.

 

He was beautiful from the tip of this ruthlessly-tamed auburn hair to the toes of his handmade shoes. A pair of eyes as blue and cold as sapphires scrutinised the two men and Greg felt as if his whole life had been laid bare before he had even uttered a word.

 

The man uncrossed his elegant long legs and stood up, his face utterly expressionless.

 

“Mr Holmes, I'd like you to meet Greg Lestrade. He…”

 

John's voice tapered off as both his and Greg's outstretched hands were ignored.

 

Mycroft Holmes looked Greg up and down, then walked around him before standing in front of him again. Greg suddenly knew how a lab specimen felt under the microscope.

 

“This is the man you wish me to cast as Callahan?”

 

That voice. Dear God, Greg thought. Does he have  _ any  _ idea what effect that has on anything with a pulse?

 

“Yes, sir.” John said deferentially.

 

Mycroft looked straight at Greg, his nose crinkling slightly.

 

“You would not be my first choice, Mr Lestrade. However I have been led to believe that you know your subject fairly well. Am I correct?”

 

“Yes,” croaked Greg.

 

“That is a start. Now, firstly you need to stop dying your hair. Callahan is a much older man but if you regain your natural silver you should pass. You also need to soften up a bit. Callahan is not some muscle-bound pretty boy as you currently present yourself. Put on some weight, allow yourself to slouch a bit and we will have something to work with. Do you agree?”

 

Greg realised his mouth was hanging open and shut it with a snap. Muscle-bound pretty boy. Who did this guy think he was? Fortunately that wasn't what came out of his mouth.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Very well. We have an accord. I shall begin constructing the script immediately. Good evening.”

 

As John and Greg left the suite, Greg's one thought was that the man may look like heaven but this whole thing was going to be hell.

 

TBC

 


End file.
